Snaith shook his head, smiling incredulously. Maitland flushed with annoyance and resentment, then on impulse rose and strode into the adjoining bedroom, returning with a small canvas bag. "You shall see for yourself," he said, depositing the bag on the desk and fumbling with the draw-string. "If you will be kind enough to step over here--" Mr. Snaith, still unconvinced, hesitated, then assented, halting a brief distance from Maitland and toying abstractedly with his cane while the young man plucked at the draw-string. "Deuced tight knot, this," commented Maitland, annoyed. "No matter. Don't trouble, please. I'm quite satisfied, believe me." "Oh, you are!" Maitland turned; and in the act of turning, the loaded head of the cane landed with crushing force upon his temple. For an instant he stood swaying, eyes closed, face robbed of every vestige of color, deep lines of agony graven in his forehead and about his mouth; then fell like a lifeless thing, limp and invertebrate. The _soi-disant_ Mr. Snaith caught him and let him gently and without sound to the floor. "Poor fool!" he commented, kneeling to make a hasty examination. "Hope I haven't done for him.... It would be the first time.... Bad precedent!... So! He's all right--conscious within an hour.... Too soon!" he added, standing and looking down. "Well, turn about's fair play." He swung on his heel and entered the hallway, pausing at the door long enough to shoot the bolt; then passed hastily through the other chambers, searching, to judge by his manner. In the end a closed door attracted him; he jerked it open, with an exclamation of relief. It gave upon a large bare room, used by Maitland as a trunk-closet. Here were stout leather straps and cords in ample measure. "Mr. Snaith" selected one from them quickly but with care, choosing the strongest. In two more minutes, Maitland, trussed, gagged, still unconscious, and breathing heavily, occupied a divan in his smoking-room, while his assailant, in the bedroom, ears keen to catch the least sound from with-out, was rapidly and cheerfully arraying himself in the Maitland grey-striped flannels and accessories--even to the grey socks which had been specified. "The less chances one takes, the better," soliloquized "Mr. Snaith." He stood erect, in another man's shoes, squaring back his shoulders, discarding the disguising stoop, and confronted his image in a pier-glass. "Good enough Maitland," he commented, with a little satisfied nod to his counterfeit presentment. "But we'll make it better still."